46 GOLDEN HORN

coffee and henna, and his old cheeks rouged, on his way
to begin a new way of life for his people.

Surveying the assembly with his brilliant eyes (burning
with fever, perhaps, as well as anxiety, for he had a taint
of tuberculosis on both sides of his family) Abdul Hamid
bowed right and left, as he passed down the hedge of steel
that formed the core of this superb parade, to the standards
of Plevna, to the waving spectators, to the cheering troops.
He was no longer the hated Ogre of Yildiz, but good,
kind, old Father Hamid, who had delivered his people
from the rule of spies and despots. His ancestors, riding
plumed and bediamonded to one of the great mosques,
had never been more enthusiastically acclaimed.

Twice a trumpet sounded, and twice, with a glitter of
swords and bayonets, the troops cried Padishamiz chok
yasha \

But how long would the Padishah live ? He was sallow
under his make-up, and there was death in his eyes. He
looked like a corpse, dressed up and painted, and taken
to its prayers for political purposes.

Within the Parliament House, the elect of the nation
awaited its Sovereign : a medley of races and religions as
amiably disposed to each other as a basketful of rattle-
snakes.

In the middle, by the wall, stood the seat and table
destined for Riza Pasha, the ex-schoolmaster and Parisian
exile who was to be chosen President. To the right were
three boxes, reserved for the Sultan and his staff. Facing
them were the diplomats. On the floor of the house sat
the representatives of the Omnipotent People : old Kiamil
Pasha, the staunch friend of England (had he not been
photographed in the company of King Edward ?) and